


What I Should Have Said

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV Show)
Genre: And say the obvious things, Drabbles, F/M, Fix It Fic, Game of Thrones AU, In which human beings behave as such, Missing Moments, Season 7 and 8 fix its, and act like themselves and not pod people., and behave with logic, other characters to be added - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2021-01-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:01:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27702470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: A series of drabbles or one shots. Moments or conversations that might have changed the endgame of Game of Thrones
Relationships: Daenerys Targaryen & Sansa Stark, Daenerys Targaryen & Tyrion Lannister, Daenerys Targaryen/Jon Snow, Jon Snow & Arya Stark
Comments: 183
Kudos: 349





	1. The Morning After

**Author's Note:**

> I've had a lot of these kicking around in my head since the airing of the Dumpster fire of season 8 was happening. They don't necessarily fit into a cohesive "fix it" fic, so it's just different takes on existing scenes, or missing moments that could have changed the fates of several characters, but most of all Jon and Daenerys.

She’s not sure how long she’s been awake; minutes or hours, it matters little. She’s perched in a chair, her knees tucked under her chin, as she watches him. The slow rise and fall of his chest. His brows furrowing then separating. His feet wrestling the fur, pushing it off his body, the Southern climate sweltering to the ice in his blood. He kicks hard enough and reveals the thatch of black hair that trails from his navel to his manhood, and the “V” of his hip bones. She wishes the fur would fall lower still, for even in the dim light she can see it tenting over his erection. He’s a beautiful man. There’s no denying it. His trunk is mutilated, his hands are rough and calloused and dirty, and he’s too short. But all those things make him even more appealing. 

She was attracted immediately, no matter how insolent and ill-mannered he’d been, but she buried it deep. The way her heart would flutter at his approach. The way she saw his face when she closed her eyes. For a while she assumed that she was just randy. She hadn’t had a man since Daario, after all. But the more she got to know him, the harder it was to deny. She felt for him, quite deeply. When he nearly died beyond the Wall, she had to admit it to herself. It was a heady thing to realize he felt the same.

  
  


She wants to crawl into bed beside him. She wants to wake him with her mouth on his hardening shaft, as she’s sure he’s never had. Even though he pleasured her well, there’d been plenty about his manner that betrayed his inexperience. There’s so much she could show him.

But she won’t. Instead, she sears the night they spent onto her memory, to hold for herself, because she can’t keep him.

She didn’t expect him to come to her. She thought him too shy, too honorable. But he did.

The first time was quick and desperate. He spilled his seed within two minutes. She had no release, but his cock felt good inside her nonetheless. Such a pretty cock too; not so large as to be terrifying, but a good length and girth, bulbous and hot and hard as Valyrian steel, his bollocks taut and perfectly sized to cup in her palm. It was fitting; after all, what use was an ass like that, if his manhood turned out to be small or oddly shaped or diseased, with his sack shriveled and sagging? Jon Snow did not disappoint.

After he fucked her, he stayed inside her as his breaths slowed and his body relaxed. When he regained his energy, he kissed her all over, paying special attention to her lower lips. No one had ever done that before. She knew how it felt to touch herself there, but to have his mouth on her, reaching all the right places….oh gods, he was like a bear with a honeycomb, and he’d savored every drop. He made quick work of her, her climax assailing her like the violent waves that thrash against the shores of Dragonstone.

She had him once more, after they woke from a short rest, mounting him like a stallion, hips rolling and thrusting, cunt grasping his length, his cockhead ramming the entrance of her womb with such force and ownership, she could almost imagine his seed taking hold. She came twice like that, before and then after he finished. She spent the rest of the night sheltered in his arms, her slumber replete and dreamless. It was just what she needed. 

When she woke to nature’s call before dawn, the reality set upon her like the rays of the sun.

It would be funny if it weren’t so damned unfair. For Jon Snow cannot be her bedmate like Daario was; she already cares too much for that. Nor can he be her husband like Drogo. She can’t very well marry the first man she came across in Westeros. He gave his allegiance without the condition of marriage. She has to save that card for another play. She hates that, but it is what it is. She resigns herself to the truth that their moment was just that; fleeting, perfect, and singular. It cannot happen again. There is too much at stake.

Finally, he stirs. He reaches his arm across the mattress, searching for her. He sits up, alarmed to miss her, but the concern in his sleepy eyes turns to affection when he finds her. He gives a small smile, which she can’t help but return. Gods, she wants to touch him. To rewind time so he could wake to her body against his. She knows what it would lead to. That’s why she couldn’t allow it.

“It’s early,” he mutters. His voice is hoarse. A pitcher of water sits on the table beside her, and she pours a gobletful for him, which he accepts. But he doesn’t take his eyes off her. She feels naked under his gaze, despite her pale blue dressing gown. It vexes her.

“The sun is rising,” she nudges. “Which means….you should..”

He looks down as if only now realizing his own nudity. His pale cheeks flush. 

“Oh. I guess you’re right.” He fumbles around, looking for his tunic and trousers, which are folded neatly atop her trunk. She retrieves them for him. She turns from him as he dresses. It’s not that she’s embarrassed at the sight of a naked man. If she had her way, she’d keep him like that, and spend the day admiring the perfection of his form. But she can’t get herself in a frenzy. She has to stand firm.

When she looks again, he’s lacing the ties at his neck. It’s relatively safe, even if he is still the most handsome man she’s ever seen. He sits on the bed to pull on his boots, but he keeps his eyes on her as he does. 

Once that’s done, he sits with his hands on his knees. They flex and twitch. He’s nervous. “I….I…..enjoyed last night,” he stammers. “You were….well….”

“You’re very sweet,” she says with a rueful smile. She knows it’s not easy for Jon Snow to express himself with words. He prefers to let his actions do that. 

He slides off the bed and kneels before her. He takes her hands in his. She likes his hands, powerful but not brutish. She likes the way they feel as he holds her. They’re surprisingly warm and gentle for instruments of death.

“I only hope that I pleased you. It...it seemed like you liked it.” His eyes are wide and earnest and it pricks her heart. 

“It was lovely,” she admits.

He lifts himself enough so that he can kiss her. She allows it, but keeps it chaste. When his lips part and his tongue flicks against her mouth, she pulls back, though it takes no small amount of inner strength.

He looks puzzled, but he does not press her. Instead, he gallantly kisses the backs of her hands. She can feel her bones go soft as he looks at her with reverence and shyness and a tinge of longing. 

“So….shall I come to you tonight?”

_ Yes, and all the nights after,  _ her heart says, but she bites back the words.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” 

He releases her hands, and she takes that opportunity to get up, and move away from him, because the attraction between them is a physical pull, and she’s out of sorts. It’s suddenly hot. She pours some water for herself and takes a long drink, while he gapes at her, wounded.

“Have I done something wrong?” 

She’s done this before. She can do this again. With Daario it was easy enough. Because she didn’t lo….

_ No. _

“I told you, it was lovely.” She can see that he believes she’s just patronizing him now. But she doesn’t really have time to coddle his ego. The sex was good. Better than good. But that isn’t the point. She sits her goblet on the table. The sun is starting to shimmer through the port holes, and she realizes her gown is indecent for this conversation, the outline of her figure clear to his eyes, her puckered nipples poking at the thin fabric. She finds her robe, a warm woolen one, and throws it over her shoulders.

“I don’t understand,” he protests, but he’s enough of a gentleman to keep his distance.

She sighs. This is more difficult than she believed, but she can’t go back.  _ If I look back, I am lost.  _ She clasps her hands in front of her, assuming her queenly bearing. “Since I met you, how many times have you told me ‘there is no time?’ No time for you to bend the knee, no time for me to wage war on Cersei, because this was so much more important. And you were right. What is coming for us...we can’t afford to be distracted.” She dares to step closer, enough that she has to incline her head to look him in the eyes. “And, it won’t do for your people to believe you yielded the North because I seduced you.” It makes sense to her. If it doesn’t to him, she has no wish to explain it further. She is the Queen. She is  _ his  _ Queen, so he says, so he must obey her.

Jon Snow is bold when he clasps his hands around her wrists. His eyes betray his injured heart and she wonders if she’s cut as deep as the blades that meant to butcher him. The thought of hurting him pains her. She didn’t come here to break anyone’s heart. 

“You didn’t seduce me,” he reminds her, as if she’d forgotten. “I bent the knee on my own accord.”

As if that makes it better. When he named her his Queen, he promised her that his people would come to see her for what she was. Whatever he thought she was, anyway. But the more he speaks of his countrymen, and the more she learns from Jorah and Tyrion, the more she doubts it. Which is fine. As long as the Northerners can place their faith in Jon, their opinion of her isn’t so important. Not until the Night King is defeated, in any case. Then, once they see what she is willing to risk for them, and once she saves them, they’ll come around. She can’t risk their future loyalty for her temporary pleasure. She takes another deep breath. She raises one hand to his cheek, which is warm against her palm, and his beard abrades her skin.

“I understand. But they won’t. At least this way we don’t have to pretend.”

She expects him to argue, or maybe to pull her in for a passionate kiss, or perhaps disrobe her like he did last night, and carry her to the bed and have his way.

Part of her is offended when he does not.

Instead, he releases her. 

“As you wish, Your Grace,” he says curtly. Then he gathers his gorget and gambeson, and heads for the door, trying very hard not to look her way.

She feels guilty, even though she shouldn’t. No man is entitled to her love. But if she could choose to whom she would give it, Jon Snow would be the one.

“Lord Snow,” she calls after him, and he pauses, though he doesn’t look at her still. It’s just as well. If she has to see the longing in those lovely brown eyes again, her resolve will surely leave her. “I meant it. Last night….I won’t forget it.”

“Nor I, Your Grace,” he mutters as he leaves, though she knows very well that his heart will remain with her.


	2. Meeting The Lords

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dany holds court at Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a reimagining of the first meeting with the Northern Lords. What pissed me off about the original scene besides Jon lying to his bannermen about bending the knee (or at least omitting some details) was Tyrion doing Dany’s talking for her while she just sat there and looked annoyed. Since when does Daenerys Stormborn need someone to speak for her? Since when does Jon Snow suffer shit talking from his subordinates? Not in my movie.
> 
> I did not rewatch the original scene before writing this so I’m working with the best of my recollection. I can’t remember when Tyrion spoke or everything he said so if some of it is repeated, just overlook it.

“What do dragons eat, anyway,” the redheaded girl sneers. 

  
“Whatever they want,” Daenerys replies coolly, as her eyes cut across Jon Snow, to meet his sister’s. Ever so slightly, the other woman flinches. Not enough for anyone else to notice, but Daenerys can always sense fear. Sansa Stark tries to pretend she’s unflappable. She’s been haughty and indifferent since their arrival, and while Daenerys has tried to exercise some patience and empathy - how many times did Jon warn her that the Northerners would receive her with distrust - this behavior cannot be allowed. 

She recalls what she’s been told of Lady Stark. Of the unfortunate years she spent in King’s Landing, and the cruelty she endured at the hands of the Boltons. Smarter than she lets on. Not to be underestimated. Contrarian and ambitious. There’s nothing wrong with any of those qualities, but she has not demonstrated so much of it in Dany’s observation. What sort of intelligent, savvy woman openly provokes her Queen, who happens to have a powerful army at her back, and has come to protect people who can’t protect themselves? The girl is testing her limits, and she’s trying to score political points with her audience. Very well. It was Dany’s intention to be diplomatic, and to understand the Northerners’ perspective. But apparently that is not the play the Stark girl intends to make, so she must be shown that she is outmatched.

Ignoring the murmurs, Daenerys rises and smooths her coat. She clasps her hands in front of her and levels her gaze at the throng before her; a drab, homely lot of downtrodden men and a few ladies with crooked teeth and dirty hair and long faces and joyless lives. She can’t fathom how Jon, beautiful as he is, is one of them. Their bitterness and stubbornness has aged them all well beyond their years. Their lips are thin and set in permanent scowls. They believe that being from where they’re from somehow makes them special, but they don’t look proud to her. They look haggard and hopeless.

She becomes acutely aware of what an outsider she is here. But she has been all her life. Typically she’s able to assimilate to her surroundings and win people over, and if Khal Drogo and his khalasaar didn’t scare her away when she was a young girl, these sour-faced fuckers clinging to centuries of grudges certainly will not. It is time to show them to whom their former king bent the knee. 

She peers down at Jon, who is seething. He’s already had an earful from these malcontents, and she realizes he’s horrified by his sister’s display. His knuckles are white as he grips the arms of his chair. His anger excites her, and she hopes to reap the rewards later if they can find a way to be alone. 

“Forgive me, Lady Sansa,” she begins, though she keeps her eyes forward, sweeping them over every person in the Great Hall who looks back at her with disdain she has not earned. “I had the impression you understood that when Lord Jon came to me on Dragonstone, his objective was to secure resources and allies. So it seems to me what you failed to account for was his success.” 

Slowly and purposefully, she strides to the front side of the table. It’s cold away from the hearth, and she no longer has the security of a barrier between herself and the pack of wolves crammed into every nook and cranny of this crypt-like hall. Winterfell is as gloomy as its people. She misses sun and warmth, and pretty gowns of gossamer and silk. She misses the safety of Jon’s arms.

She pauses to stand in front of Sansa and regards her with a sharply arched brow. The petulant girl just stares ahead, her eyes flickering with blue flame. It pleases Daenerys. If Sansa Stark wants discord between them, then it is what she shall have, if she has to be acknowledged at all.

“I suppose it is only natural,” Dany continues. She’s patronizing, but doesn’t care. “After all, you’ve been under immense strain, readying Winterfell for the battle to come and the long winter to follow. An understandable mistake.” 

Sansa glares at her, but at least has the sense to hold her tongue. Satisfied, Dany turns again to face her subjects. 

“But let me reassure you. In fact, let me assure all of you. We have not come here to take food from the mouths of you or your children. I have no military mind, but I did not march an army, tens of thousands strong, the length of a continent without making sure they were adequately provisioned. We have everything we need to feed and shelter ourselves.” She extends her arms. “And you are welcome to what is ours, if you have need of it. For now more than ever, we must combine our strength. It is the only hope we have.”

Voices in the hall rumble like distant thunder. She believes she hears a few epithets aimed her way, the foreign whore, dragon spawn, daughter of madness, mother of monsters. She’s heard them all before. Her hands flex as her blood runs hot. They dare insult her? Let them say it to her face, and she’ll have their tongues.

“Quiet!” Jon Snow’s gravely voice is a welcome sound as his fist strikes the table. “Your Queen is speaking, and you will show the proper respect. Any of you who has an objection to that, can cross swords with me, here and now!” He stands so abruptly, his chair tips over with a loud smack against the stone floor. Sansa Stark gasps. The crowd hums with surprise. Daenerys suppresses a smile, and the desire to throw him down on the table and ride him proudly for all to see. She’s seen shades of his temper, but right now he’s restraining it with a very frayed thread, and she knows he’ll have to release it soon enough. Better that he unleashes it on her.

“There will be no need for that, my Lord,” she says as she casts a grateful glance at him. She turns back to those gathered, raising her voice above the din. “My Lord and Ladies, you have not seen the terror that marches toward us. I have witnessed it for myself, and I promise you. This is no band of sellswords. Not farmers or stone masons taking up arms for the first time in their lives. It is an army whose purpose is the destruction of the living. Of all of us. They care not to which house you belong. They are coming for us all with no regard to our loyalties. We have no choice. We must work together.”

  
  


She has the room now. It’s actually a relief. Every eye is on her. Every voice has silenced. For the first time since riding through those gates, she feels like a Queen. Her tone softens as she continues.

  
  


“You do not trust me. You do not know me.” She gestures to the man she loves, who, though still agitated, keeps his eyes on her, reverent and reassuring. It steels her spine. “But you do know Jon Snow, and you know you can place your trust in him. I have come to know him over these months, and I know that every decision he has made has been with the best interests of the North foremost in mind. He would lay down his life for every single one of you, and has.” She glares pointedly at Sansa Stark again, before turning her attention back to the assembly. Her heart pounds as the air crackles with something she can’t name. 

“If we survive this war, it will be in no small part because of Lord Jon. But we can only hope to survive if we band together. There will come a time for your voices to be heard. A time for your grievances to be redressed. But it is not now. Now, we must fight our common enemy. Will you stand with us? Stand and fight? For your families! For your homes! For the Realm! For all the living! What say you, people of the North and the Vale?” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the sack of Highgarden, Tyrion faces the consequences of his many blunders

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one is from Tyrion’s POV so I hope I could capture the range of his thoughts and emotions. It’s really hard for Tyrion to accept that he isn’t indispensable. 
> 
> My question has always been, what was Tyrion’s motive for aligning with Dany? A real belief in her cause, or a need for revenge, or just self preservation? Did he really believe in Dany, or did he just believe in himself?

It’s rare in Tyrion’s life that he’s been at a loss for words. The first time he had a woman. The first time he saw a dragon. That’s about it. 

Until now, of course.

_ “Our enemies? Your family you mean. Perhaps you don’t want to hurt them after all.” _

His Queen is more perceptive than he realized. He has tried to deny it, but in his heart he knows she’s right about this.

He doesn’t want to hurt them because he already has. Mother, dead. His nephew and niece, dead. He cannot blame himself for Joffrey. The little cunt had it coming. But then the spiral began, and when he murdered Father, he left Tommen and Myrcella vulnerable, and their enemies took advantage. 

_ “Is this the price for what we’ve done? For our sins?” _

It doesn’t escape him that those enemies are -  _ were -  _ Daenerys’ allies. But this is about more than his own grief and guilt. Cersei’s children were her only redemption. Her one stitch of humanity. She has to be defeated. He has no illusion about that. She’s wicked and vengeful and cunning, but not clever; the worst combination for a ruler. The people will suffer for her vanity. She can’t remain on the throne. 

He only prays that she’ll leave it alive. Perhaps the Queen will agree to send her into exile, with Jaime, far from here. It’s the best option Cersei has.

And Daenerys is the best hope Westeros has. She will be better than those who came before her. She thinks of others, not just herself. She’s prone to aggression, her temper is short, and she is young and naive. But she does listen, and at least she knows what she doesn’t know. He can mold her. Shape her into someone who has the best chance of anyone in decades to reign virtuously. To bring peace. To make things better.

Unfortunately, her patience with him has reached its limit. She dressed him down on the beach, in front of the bastard and the smuggler. He knows he had it coming. His plans haven’t borne much fruit so far. He’s embarrassed. To have been outwitted by his siblings, of all people? He never had much to be proud of compared to them, but he was supposed to be the smart one. Maybe he should never have given up women and wine. 

So, he’s stewing in the council chamber, eyeing the decanter of Dornish red, contemplating his decisions.

He’s not a military man just because he’s well read and has fought in one battle. That is why he didn’t want this to be a military campaign if it didn’t have to be. He was foolish to believe that it didn’t. Cersei struck first and hit her mark. Their three allies are decimated, and, so far as he can tell, discussions with the North have gone nowhere. Unless the longing stares the King in the North gives the Queen when he thinks no one is looking can be counted as progress. He doubts it. Many men have admired Daenerys’ beauty. Tyrion himself was rather bowled over the first time he saw her, and he certainly can’t fault the boy for being smitten. That doesn’t mean Jon Snow is prepared to lay his kingdom at the Queen’s dainty feet.

The situation is most precarious, and Tyrion knows not what to do. In hindsight, it was foolish to attack Casterly Rock to begin with. The place has no strategic value. He knows for a fact that the Westerlands are no longer the center of wealth in the Realm. It was spite. A message to Cersei. But she had a message of her own to send. She and Jaime.

There are still forces in Dorne, but no practical way to get them where they need to be, and no guarantee that their next leader will side with Daenerys. The Riverlands are also in play, though Edmure Tully, reinstated as the Lord Paramount, more naturally aligns with the North. It appears Jon Snow is the key. It’s unconventional, for he is a bastard, but he has been named King. Tyrion knows more than anyone that calling yourself King does not make you one, but Snow was chosen. His birth notwithstanding, he is a respected man, and a natural leader. 

Tyrion admonished the Queen before she sailed for these shores that marriage was the best way to form an alliance. Perhaps that is a discussion to put on the table. The trouble is that she’s hardly in the mood for more of his advice right now. He gnaws at his bottom lip as he thinks. The Onion Knight, of course! The old smuggler somehow ingratiated himself to become Snow’s advisor. If he could speak to Davos Seaworth, Hand to Hand, an agreement could be reached. 

They’d make an attractive couple, Daenerys and Jon Snow. And he could be an asset in other ways. On the beach, she asked for his counsel, and he gave it, and it was….sound. Tyrion isn’t sure if she’ll heed it, but at least she didn’t immediately hop on Drogon’s back and fly to the Red Keep as she threatened. It’s possible Jon Snow can reason with her when her advisors cannot.

Yes, a marriage seems like a fine idea.

Ignoring the taunt of the untouched wine, he rises to seek out Varys, as there are matters to discuss. But he is stopped in his tracks by the Queen herself entering the chamber, flanked by three of her bloodriders.

With a nod, she dismisses them. Tyrion isn’t quite sure what to do, so he starts to kneel, but she stops him.

“There is no need for that My Lord. Please sit.”

It is not a request, so he returns to his usual place at the Painted Table. She does not sit with him as normal, and it unnerves him. Instead, she silently pours two goblets of wine. It would be rude of him to decline, so he takes a drink when she does. It is liquid relief.

Feeling a bit more bold, he clears his throat. “Your Grace, I….”

“Please,” she interrupts. 

She looks stern. This probably won’t be a nice conversation. His heart sinks. She takes another long drink of her wine, peering at him over the rim of the goblet. When she finishes, she gently places it on the table and dabs her stained lips with a napkin. Her demeanor is cold. Her eyes bore holes through him. He feels he’s growing impossibly smaller. Being fed to a dragon would be a show of mercy. 

“My Lord, your tenure as my Hand has been fraught. Nearly every word of advice you have offered has erred.”

She says nothing he does not know already, but that makes it no easier to hear. Just once, he wanted to prove them wrong. He can’t define  _ them,  _ only that it isn’t just his family. Instead, away from the capital, he flails and careens and bungles. It’s no less than Father would have expected, but Tyrion always believed he was more than his family’s shame, a laughingstock with nothing to contribute. In Daenerys, he’d found some acceptance. In her cause, he found purpose. That meant more to him than anyone else’s opinion. Now he has failed her.

He can’t meet her eyes anymore. He feels like a child being scolded by his nanny. He takes another drink, and before he knows it, his goblet is empty. He refills it while she watches, impatient.

He clears his throat. “Your Grace, I admit I have made some mistakes….”

“Mistakes?” She scoffs. “You’ve been a calamity, My Lord.”

She takes one turn about the room, circling the table, brushing past him and raising the hairs on his neck. He wills the walls to collapse around him. Despite the breeze wafting inside from the sea, he finds it hot and harder to breathe. He wonders if she’s slipped something in his wine, but he knows that is ludicrous. If she wanted to murder him, his death would be far more dramatic than a poisoning. 

She stands at the hearth, goblet in hand, staring into the flames. “I will not go so far as to accuse you of treachery,” she says bitterly, “but it is clear that your lingering sentiment toward your family makes you uniquely unfit for your position. I’m only sorry that I didn’t see it sooner.”

A lump forms in his throat as she turns to him again. He likes to think he’s a man governed not by emotion and sentiment, but by logic and pragmatism. If he were in Daenerys’ shoes, he’d probably think the same. But she does not understand what he feels for her. What he’d do for her. And what it’s costing him. She calls him unfit. Perhaps she is right. It was fanciful for him to hope that he could ever….or that she could….

He is not so pragmatic after all, is he? And now she’s sacking him. His head spins. He’s good at finding the right words. Always has been. Maybe that’s all he is. Pretty words with no substance behind them. 

_ That’s not true,  _ his pride says. But how many chances should he be given to prove otherwise, when so much is at stake?

In his brooding, he barely notices when she finally sits, not in her usual seat at the head of the table, but beside him. Goose flesh raises on his arms when she covers his stubby hand with hers. Slowly, he meets her eyes. He recognizes the look, and it makes him ill.

Not contempt, but pity. He’s not sure which is worse.

“I’m sorry to have faced you with such a plight,” she says quietly. Then she clasps her hands together and rests them in her lap. 

He’s studied the language of her body quite closely in the time he’s known her. This is what she does to separate the personal from the political. To separate herself from her sentiment.

Not an encouraging sign for his prospects.

She takes a deep breath and continues. “Though no doubt the sister whose preservation you desire would kill you where you stand, you don’t want her to die. I understand. My brother was the worst person I ever knew, but he was my brother and I loved him. If he had lived, would I have found it in my heart to go to war against him, even though I knew his reign would bring only suffering and destruction to the kingdoms? I do not know.” 

This may be the first time he’s ever seen Daenerys look sad. They’ve not spoken much of her brother. Tyrion isn’t a fool. The first time he tried to ask her about her childhood, her eyes glazed over and she changed the subject, obviously not wishing to revisit those memories. He knows Viserys was cruel and callow, that he sold his own sister as a glorified bed slave, and that he died by her husband’s hand. He knows the world is no worse off without Viserys Targaryen. But it never occurred to him that there was a man behind the Beggar King, and a boy before that, alone in the world with a baby sister to protect, and perhaps it is that boy Daenerys loved. Just as he loves Cersei, at least enough to hope to spare her life. Why is that though? Cersei never showed him a whiff of compassion or tenderness. She tormented him in childhood, derided and ridiculed him as an adult, took from him, tried to hurt people he loved, still holds Jaime under her thumb….and he can’t bring himself to wish her dead. 

What had he been thinking in trying to go to war against her? 

Perhaps Daenerys understands him more than he sometimes understands himself. 

He squares his shoulders. “Your Grace, I have disappointed you. I have failed you. But I swear to you, anything I have done was in good faith, and never with the intention of jeopardizing your cause or your person. My mistakes have given me the chance to reflect and examine my own…. _ shortcomings…”  _ he chuffs at this, and is encouraged when she returns a slight smile, “but I am prepared now to do what must be done to bring a swift end to this conflict so that you may take your rightful place on the Iron Throne. And to that end, we must form new alliances, so I have a proposal for you to consider….”

His hopes deflate as her stoic mask returns. 

“I am afraid it’s too late, My Lord,” she says solemnly. “I have not come to this decision lightly.” She rises and smooths her skirts. She looks down at him, and he withers. “Tyrion Lannister, I hereby remove you as Hand of the Queen. I will not be so cruel as to banish you from Dragonstone, for where would you go? You may tarry as long as you wish, My Lord, and when this is over I shall grant you the inheritance of Casterly Rock, for what it’s worth.”

He wants to cry. He wants to vomit. The pin he wears on his breast sears his skin through his jerkin, as if it knows he is no longer worthy of it. This hurts. Hurts more than if she’d removed his head or burned him alive. He may as well be dead, now that she has cast him out. He doesn’t give a fuck about Casterly Rock, or her mercy. He just wanted to prove his worth, and in her eyes he has none. 

His hand shakes as he tries to remove the pin. It’s heavier than he realized. He studies it for a moment. The Hand. Arguably a symbol of greater significance than any crown. He’d been so close to that glory. With Joffrey, all he could do with the title was try to avert disaster until Father returned to assume the role. With Daenerys, he could have been the arbiter of the most consequential decisions to be made in centuries. Could have been the architect of a new Valyria. 

Now, he realizes as he places the pin on the table, he’s nothing. Just another failed bureaucrat. Another idealistic fool whom no one will remember.

His heart skips when she places her hand on his cheek. He looks at her, and he sees the sorrow on her face, even as she tries to conceal it.

“Do not be bitter, My Lord. Despite this, I do care for you. My advisors have never been just that to me. They have been my friends. That is why the disappointment has always cut so deep.” She picks up the pin and turns it over in her hands, then tucks it into the pocket of her overdress. “We shall keep this between us for now. We must save face with our guests after all. But I cannot bring you with me to the Reach.”

His heart starts racing.  _ The Reach?  _ It dawns on him. She means to confront the Lannister army.  _ No, no, no, she can’t! She’ll get herself killed...and Jaime...what of Jaime…. _

But there is no objection he can make that she will consider. He lost her ear through his own folly. Now, people are going to die. He feels physically ill. He sinks back into his seat. This will be a disaster. And he’s impotent.

“Your Grace….” he croaks, his throat burning in acid, “Please, let’s discuss this…”

“There is no need for discussion, Tyrion,” she replies. She refills his goblet. “Remain here, enjoy your wine and books. Perhaps you can aid the King in the North as he searches for a way to conquer his foe. I believe him, after what he showed me. I’m sure he will be grateful for whatever help you can offer. A better use of your talents, I think.”

He doesn’t watch as she leaves the room. He can only hear the echo of her boots as she treads over the slate floors. When she’s gone, he downs his wine in one swallow. He slams the goblet on the table as if the gilded thing is the cause of his problems. But as he hurls it at the hearth and it shatters against the stone, he understands that nothing has happened that he hasn’t brought on himself.

And now who can say how many will pay the price.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya have a heart to heart before he heads south

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I originally posted this as a prompt drabble on Tumblr but I did a little editing. This is a conversation that Jon and Arya should have had, if Arya acted like Arya instead of Sansa lite. Takes place after that unfortunate sibling summit in the godswood.

He knows he won’t be back here again any time soon. Not that he never expected to see this place again, when he left for the Wall a lifetime ago. But fate had other ideas. Still, there’s a melancholy as he packs his trunk. 

He has a better idea what to take along this time than he did when he went South before. The air down there stinks of filth, and it’s heavy and muggy, even with winter coming. He shudders as he thinks of how the leather and wool he wore stuck to his skin, and how his cloak smothered him. But he kept it on anyway, because it made him more imposing, and it showed he was a northman, and it made him feel safer, like a babe’s blanket. It was a piece of home.

Not that Winterfell feels much like home anymore. 

He feels like an interloper. Even more now than he did as a child, if that makes sense. It really doesn’t, because he now knows that, by law and by blood, he’s as much a Stark as his…

They aren’t his siblings now, are they? Not just because they don’t actually share a father, but because they’re all fundamentally different people than the children he knew. And it makes him sad.

As he pivots from the wardrobe to the trunk one more time, he knows she’s there without looking. He should be alarmed that she can move about so quietly, slipping in and out, wherever and whenever she chooses. It makes her dangerous.

“You’ve gotta stop doing that,” he scolds.

When he turns around, Arya Stark is standing at the door. She approaches him just as quietly as she entered, a queer look on her face. He can’t read her like he once could, but he’s not sure he has the energy for her right now. Their last conversation was….discouraging.

“Didn’t mean to sneak up on you,” she says. “I just wanted to give you something before you go.”

It doesn’t make him feel better. There was a time that he and Arya were thick as thieves. There were no secrets. No hard feelings. Only trust and affection. That’s gone now. He’s uneasy as she fingers the ornate hilt of the dagger tucked into the little scabbard at her hip. He’s incredulous when she brandishes it, twirls it with a flourish, and hands it to him.

He can’t help but admire the craftsmanship. He turns it over carefully, studying its intricate design. It is a beautiful thing, with its gleaming Valyrian blade - steel forged by his ancestors - no bigger than a kitchen knife. But it thwarted the end of the world, because it is magical. Perhaps the one who wields it is as well. She must be, a little, to have survived all she has. 

“I can’t accept this,” he says, and her countenance falls.

“Yes you can. You may need it where you’re going.”

He reads her meaning clearly, and it pisses him off. She knows full well that he has his own weapons and knows how to use them. Then he remembers the same scene playing out years ago, when he presented her Needle to her. He wishes he could believe that she only intends to return the gesture.

“I’ll be alright,” he assures her. “You used this dagger to kill the Night King. You saved us all. It’s a part of you now.” He places it back in her hand hilt first, and wraps his fingers around hers with an affectionate squeeze.“Keep it.”

Reluctantly, Arya returns the dagger to her belt. She’s quiet and contemplative, and for a minute appears as the little girl he remembers.

“You’re not coming back, are you?” 

“What makes you say that?” He knows she’s likely right, but he still feels a need to guard her heart.

But Arya is uninterested in pretense.

“She’ll win this war Jon. And she’ll take the Iron Throne. And you’ll be right there, by her side. And she’ll never let you leave.”

Jon’s temper spikes. He and Dany aren’t on the best of terms right now, and it’s mostly his fault, but he’s weary of his siblings’ judgement of her after everything she’s done for the North. A dragon is not a slave, she told him, and is he not a dragon too? Yet his siblings behave as though she leads him around by his bollocks, and he has no mind of his own. 

He narrows his eyes and speaks more harshly to Arya than he ever has. “I pledged my sword to Queen Daenerys  _ after _ she pledged to fight for the North. She’s kept her word. Now I’m gonna keep mine. I serve at the pleasure of my Queen, and I will do so in whatever manner she requires.”

He does mean it. If he can’t be anything else to Dany, he can be loyal. If his sisters can’t understand that, he’s not inclined to waste his time explaining himself. One is honorable or one is not. He knows what he chooses to be.

He watches Arya as she takes this in. She paces about the room, from the hearth, to the window, and finally she sits on the edge of his bed. 

“You love her, don’t you?”

His cheeks flush. Of course he loves her. He will always love her. But it vexes him that his sisters know this, and have known it, but refuse to make a space in their hearts for the woman he loves. 

“It’s complicated,” is all he can say.

Arya shrugs. Then she lowers her voice, mindful that the walls have ears, even at Winterfell. “It isn’t really. Targaryens wed brother to sister for centuries. And all the other great houses have a history of such marriages somewhere. Our grandparents were cousins you know.”

Jon knows this well. But he considers that Arya and Sansa are technically his cousins, and he couldn’t fathom marrying one of them.  __ The thought turns his stomach. And his desire for Daenerys, despite their shared blood, tears at the fabric of his stalwart morality. He shouldn’t want her. He shouldn’t love her as he does, and yet….

He perishes the thought. “No one said anything about marriage.”

_ “ _ Maybe you should.”

He is now completely baffled, and a little angry. “Not a day ago you were telling me how much you dislike her, now you want me to marry her?”

“I want you to be happy. And safe. And it seems to me that the best solution to your  _ problem  _ would be to take her to wife.”

He sits beside Arya on the bed, and musses her hair like he did when she was little. “Did anyone ever tell you that you’re…”

“Too smart for my own good? Yeah, once or twice.” She smiles faintly, and he does too. But then her expression becomes serious. “I don’t know shit about politics. But I do know this. Sansa won’t keep your secret if she thinks there’s something to be gained from sharing it. It doesn’t matter what she promised you. She wants the North, and she’ll do whatever she thinks she must to defend what’s hers in her eyes. You have to cut her off at the pass.”

Jon’s heart sinks. He suspected as much, and he regretted his confession as soon as he made it, but he hoped he could count on his sister’s sense of honor, if she ever had any.

“Why’re you tellin’ me this?” he asks. 

Arya looks away, and it’s obvious she is struggling to not cry.

“Because I want to save Sansa from herself. Because I care about you. Because I’m tired of stupid fucking wars tearing my family apart. It was wrong of me to expect you to choose sides. It was wrong of me to distrust your Queen…. _ Daenerys,  _ just because she isn’t one of us.  _ You  _ are one of us. And I trust  _ you _ .“ 


End file.
